


Quicksilver

by Notaricon



Series: Madstone [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, Inanimate Object, Inanimate Object Porn, Kink Meme, Lyrium, Lyrium Kink, M/M, Obsession, Oral Fixation, Other, Synesthesia, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 11:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notaricon/pseuds/Notaricon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He can still feel it on his tongue. He can feel the hot, dull throb against his lips and palms. Smoulder and blood. Skin and smoke and living silver.</i>
</p><p>Justice!Anders fellates a vial of lyrium. An unorthodox prologue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quicksilver

**Author's Note:**

> Prologue to _Madstone_ ; a kink meme fill in progress which concerns Justice's pre-Anders preoccupation with lyrium and Fenris' brands.

_A buzzing sound in the dark—I cannot sleep but for the sound. The **sound**! The **song**!_

Anders rarely sleeps. These long nights, he slumps, weary and weaving on silent feet between the cots in his clinic, his deft hands moving over the prone bodies of the ill and wretched who linger under his roof. His fingers are light and fine as the legs of a water spider; he thumbs pulse points and sponges dribbling chins and under his touch, none ever wake. Now and again, a smoky slant of evening light glances off him like a turned blade, and he winces at the colour of it; the texture and taste.

He can still feel it on his tongue. He can feel the hot, dull throb against his lips and palms. Smoulder and blood. Skin and smoke and living silver.

_The song has gone we must find the song I must_

Under the muffled hum of the Undercity seething dreamless all around, he feels his way into the small room he’s cordoned off from the clinic proper, finger pads skipping over furniture and walls until he reaches a worn, familiar notch. Pressing his palms and brow to the wall, he sinks slowly to his knees, paying no mind to the plaintive, rubbery popping of his joints. The darkness is warm all around him—warm and purring and furred—and for all of a moment, everything in his mind becomes as still and silent as the rest of him, listening only to the silence.

He tugs the latch. With a dull click and the grinding sound of stone against stone, a child-sized square in the lower wall swings inward beneath his hand. Just large enough for a man to crawl through—and crawl he does.

The chamber beyond is small and spare; naught but a few battered chests squatting in a dusty corner. Shivering, with knees aching, he passes over one, and another, another, _here the song let us just—_

Anders flicks the tarnished catch open and hefts the lid. Within, he can make out the wettish sparkle of bottles and baubles, even under the dim light. Like light flecked on dark water--all but one, which casts a light of its own. Gingerly, he teases the phial from its place among the others. A chill rill of anticipation shivers through him, and the mad fever in his head stills, poised and intent and focused as a crouched beast. Waiting.

Lyrium. The sort the Templars crave. The sort that addles minds.

His lips itch. It’s just a bottle; a slim vial of cool glass, stoppered by a white stone. A bottle full of powdered rock suspended in clear solution, swirling like quicksilver and alive with a frigid glow. A bottle he’d tucked away, years on years ago, just in case. Like so many other things, just in case.

Something in him can _hear_ it, now: a faint, pale whine, distant but definite under the blunted, organic sounds of the living world.

_It summons an ache. It summons an ache I didn’t know I had._

Two weeks, it has been. Two weeks, and he’s seen neither hide nor hair of the elf. Two weeks and _he can taste it still._

Driven by an alien compulsion, he takes the bottle’s stopper into his mouth and with his teeth, breaks the seal, spitting the smooth stone into the gloom. The stuff smells of weird salts and something white, like the dried pulp of a lemon. Like a puppet with cut strings, he sags in the dark, lips working mechanically around the bottle’s icy mouth, and dimly wonders why the voice catching in his throat doesn’t sound like his. _The song. The sound._ The taste. The _ache. Maker._ The viscid sluicing of it against his tongue is too much, too fast-- _don’t, no, no, I will lose the song, please._ He draws his mouth away with a slow, slick pop and, for a moment, merely kneels, cold lyrium glittering on his slack lips, motes flaring hot under his shaky breaths. And then he is half-gone, the man in him both stoked and pushed aside by a fevered, wanting strangeness which should not belong to him, but somehow does, and like before, he can do nothing but sink into it.

His lips ply the vial like the flesh of a lover, tongue curling to slip into the unyielding tightness of its cool channel, gouts of thick wet rolling to soak the hot, soft, hidden places in his mouth. His eyes are full of blue light, and he no longer cares, _we no longer care, we cannot_ \--he sucks wetly at the vial’s lip; nibbles lightly at its whorled head, keening low and raw; dips his chin to take its slender neck, rivulets of gelid lyrium searing bitter-cold trails down along his chin and the tender skin of his throat.

When he cocks his head back, groaning around the moist shape and sound of tongue and lips and a working throat and _so many things only a body has, so many things only a mortal can be and do_ , he finds that it snakes further, dampening and slipping past the collar of his tattered under-robes. It drips to soak his belly, his thighs, leeching electric and cold through the cloth of his trousers. Maker, the ache. He swallows it all, mouthful by frigid mouthful; a philtre which veils the mind like a scrim.

Anders splutters and gasps against the wild, chill burn, dropping the spent bottle to the floor, where it lands with a sorrowing clatter and silently rolls into the dark. Gossamer threads of spittle spin down from his parted lips, a lambent wetness still on his ragged breath.

Anders rarely sleeps.

As the wan light of morning begins to crawl through the hidden door that leads back to his clinic, back to the world, he eases the splintered trunk shut once more and comes again to his hands and knees to shuffle toward the moans of his waking patients, alien thoughts still buzzing in his head.


End file.
